


I Believe In Second Chances

by spectacular_sociopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:38:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectacular_sociopath/pseuds/spectacular_sociopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock got back to Baker Street after being ’dead’ for almost two years, he’d expected everything to go straight back to normal. He’d never been so wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe In Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea going round and round in my head so I had to write it. I'm not entirely happy with it but here it is anyway :)

**Please let me in, I believe in second chances**

**I won’t break you**

**I will not let you down**

**Open up again, I believe in second chances.**

Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the Taxi and onto the curb. It had been a long time. Almost two years away and he still he felt like he’d never left the familiar surroundings of Baker Street. Upon reaching the door of 221, Sherlock found himself hoping that his old key still worked but with one glance at the lock on the door, he could see that it hadn’t been changed since he was here last. He puffed out a small sigh of relief. It would have been an inconvenience to have to wait for John to come down and let him in. Besides, he wanted to surprise him. He’d be elated.

Taking the stairs up to 221B two at a time, Sherlock’s face was graced with a small smile at the thought of seeing John after such a long time. While he’d been gone, he’d found himself really missing his blogger; he hadn’t been around anyone even vaguely close to his own intellect aside from Mycroft in far too long. It did strike Sherlock as odd that both his and John’s coats had been moved from the hooks at the top of the stairs but he decided that John must have redecorated and moved some furniture around since he’d been gone.

What he hadn’t been expecting was the extent of the change in decoration. The walls of the living room  had been half stripped of their paper in some places, leaving behind the ghastly green paint that had covered them previously suggesting that someone had attempted to renovate the walls but had given up part way through. The kitchen appeared to have been completely cleared of all pans, crockery and utensils and the desk that sat in the centre of the sitting room was entirely free of the mountains of paper and files that had used to cover its surface.  All of the chairs in the flat were missing including John’s very own armchair. John loved that armchair and he would never have got rid of it. Sherlock came to the conclusion that he must have simply moved it to his bedroom.

Eager now to be reunited with his favourite blogger, Sherlock strode onto the landing and continued up the stairs to John’s bedroom, slinging his Belstaff over the banister on his way. The excited lop-sided grin found its way onto his face once again as Sherlock reached the door to John’s room and flung it open.

John was nowhere to be seen and again, all of the furniture had either been shifted to another section of the room or removed from it entirely. Taking a few steps into the empty space, Sherlock saw that the chest of drawers beside the window was absent and the pale blue curtains that had used to be hung across the street-facing window had been taken down. The bed was missing too, leaving in its place a huge expanse of pale wood floorboards. The smile faded from Sherlock’s lips upon seeing this and was replaced by a look of puzzlement. Where was John? How was he still living here with all of the furniture gone? Was he still living here at all? Seeing that every single one of John’s books had been removed from the wooden bookcase next to the wall, a thought occurred to Sherlock. John kept his gun behind one of the shelves on his bookcase and he wouldn’t have moved out without taking it with him. If it was still there then John obviously still lived here. Removing the back of the middle shelf was a little harder than Sherlock remembered; maybe it had been a while since it had been taken out. Upon eventually unlodging it, he saw that the Sig Sauer P226R was lying there just where it had always used to be and picked it up. He’d never admit to it to him but Sherlock had missed John terribly and, until he got back, the Sig Sauer would be keeping Sherlock company as a replacement. It was a poor stand-in but it was a part of John and, for now, it would have to do.

Seeing as John would have taken the gun had he left 221B, Sherlock came to the conclusion that he hadn’t moved out. He was simply having the place redone and had gone out to buy some paint or something similarly dull. Sherlock checked to see if the gun was loaded and found that it was.

‘Trust John to leave a loaded gun stashed behind a bookcase.’ He thought fondly.

Sherlock resolved that the best course of action would be to call John and get him to meet him at Baker Street so they could talk and Sherlock could explain everything.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, the detective speedily scrolled down to John’s name and selected it. The call didn’t go through. Sherlock tried again. And again. Eventually, he gave up and decided to call Lestrade and demand to know why John wasn’t picking up his phone. Sherlock started down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen after picking up his coat and slipping John’s gun into the left hand pocket of it. It occurred to him, while searching for Lestrade’s contact in his phone, that he too was unaware of Sherlock’s continued existence. He was sure that Gavin would also be overjoyed with the news. After finding Lestrade’s number, under ‘Greg’ for some reason, he tapped call and listen to the dialling tone.

“Yup,” said a gruff voice on the other end of the line.

Surprisingly, Sherlock found himself happy to hear Graham’s voice again. “Lestrade?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

Sherlock snorted, “Nice one, Graham. Good to talk to you again, too.”

There was silence from the Detective Inspector for a good few seconds.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or how you got this number but this isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I agree completely,” replied Sherlock, “After all, I only called to find out why John wasn’t answering his phone; what could possibly be funny about that?”

Greg’s voice came slowly and cautiously. “Sherlock? Is that actually you?”

“No, of course not. I’ve simply been pretending this whole time.” was the sarcastic retort.

“It is you!” cried Greg, “How are you back? How are you even alive?”

“There’ll be time enough for explanations later, Gavin. For now, I’d really like to get hold of John and he’s not picking up his phone. Do you know where he is?”

Silence again.

“Well?” huffed Sherlock impatiently.

Again, Greg was slow to respond. “You... You don’t know? About John?”

“What about John? He moved out, didn’t he? I had a feeling he might have. Couldn’t bear to be at Baker Street without me. Left his gun behind though, which is unlike him. So what’s his current address, then?”

“Uh... Sherlock, I really don’t know how to say this but John- John killed himself, Sherlock. A few days after we all thought you did actually. He’s... been dead for nearly two years now.”

Lestrade was hesitant and sounded uncertain about how Sherlock would react to the news.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows knitted together as he tried to process what he’d just heard. Lestrade said that John was dead but that didn’t make sense. Couldn’t be right, could it? Of course not. He would have known. His mind raced and without even thinking, he abruptly ended the call with Lestrade and called the one person who he would trust to tell him the truth.

“Mycroft?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft answered, “Busy reintroducing yourself into society after your little holiday?”

“Where’s John, Mycroft?”

A sudden intake of breath from the elder Holmes brother.

“I thought you’d known for a long time. I never wanted to bring it up because-”

“Just tell me.”  Sherlock said blankly.

Mycroft started off slowly, seeming to be choosing his words with the utmost care. “He killed himself shortly after the Reichenbach incident. Your death was obviously incredibly convincing and he cared for you more than either of us could have anticipated. It seemed that he-”

Sherlock didn’t hear any more from his brother from that phone call. All Mycroft heard was a loud crash and the line going dead as Sherlock’s phone slipped from his shaking hand and clattered into pieces on the tiled floor of the empty kitchen. Sherlock’s knees quickly followed the shards of broken glass to the ground when Sherlock’s legs became unable to hold him up any more.

* * *

 Twenty minutes later, when Mycroft reached the upstairs hallway at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock hadn’t moved from where he was knelt on the kitchen floor, facing away from his older brother. Mycroft immediately dropped his umbrella and rushed to the side of the dark haired man. Sherlock was silent. When he saw the remains of Sherlock’s phone scattered across the floor, Mycroft made the quick decision to try to move Sherlock to the sofa. Glancing around the flat, his plan was quickly abandoned as he was reminded that all sofas and even chairs had long been removed. The floor of the living room it was then. He gripped his younger brother by his shoulder and elbow and guided him out of the kitchen and down to the ground where it was clear of glass. He then examined Sherlock’s knees and, to his relief, discovered that no damage had been done. Then, for the first time since he entered the flat, Mycroft looked at his brother’s face. It had been years since he had seen Sherlock look so young and, for a minute, he was reminded of when they were children and Sherlock had been scared of the dark. He remembered sitting on his bed with Sherlock and cradling his smaller body in his arms, trying to bring him some kind of comfort in his terror.

“Mycroft?”

A small voice broke Mycroft from his thought as Sherlock looked up at his brother.

“John can’t be gone.” Sherlock whispered.

In that moment, Mycroft’s heart shattered at the sight of the broken man before him and all he could think to do was pull him into his arms. They sat like they had as children. It was a small comfort but it was enough.

When Mycroft felt the tears falling onto his hands and Sherlock’s body began to shake, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet he was. Sherlock hadn’t had a pleasant adult life but Mycroft had never seen him shed a single tear since he was very young. Sherlock didn’t cry. Not since Redbeard.

* * *

The day after Sherlock found out the news that ruined his life, Mycroft took him to the graveyard. The graveyard where John was buried. He’d asked if Sherlock was ready to go but hadn’t even received a response, only Sherlock pulling some shoes on and grabbing his coat and scarf from the hooks on the landing.

The warm afternoon sun offered Sherlock little comfort. The ice cold emptiness in his chest was overpowering. All-consuming.  He’d never felt coldness like this before. But, he supposed, what else could there be without the warmth and light of John Watson. Nothing else was left. Just the cold. The dark.

They’d walked in a mutually acceptable silence right up until the gate to the burial ground when Mycroft had been the one to break it.

“Sherlock, are you certain you want to go in today? There’s no rush; you can take your time.”

“I’m sure, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a weak smile and a light squeeze to his shoulder. He was proud of his little brother.

Following behind his older brother, Sherlock looked nervously around the cemetery. He was looking for John’s grave. He thought he’d know it when he saw it; how could he not? It was John, after all. His John. After a while, Mycroft turned to him and pointed down a small path to his right. He then said that he’d wait at the entrance to give Sherlock some privacy and for that, Sherlock was grateful.

Sherlock allowed the click of Mycroft’s step to fade from his range of hearing and then took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes. He pulled his coat tighter around his slim body in an attempt to fight off the bitter numbness making its way around his body. He was here to see John. Releasing the breath he had been holding, Sherlock turned to his left, where Mycroft had indicated, and took his first unsteady step forwards. It was at this point that Sherlock’s brain decided to tell him that he wasn’t ready for this but obviously his body didn’t agree. His legs seemed to work by themselves and continued to carry Sherlock closer to John. It was like some kind of magnetic force; he had to be near him. Sherlock was unable to stop walking ahead despite his brain screaming at him to turn back now and save himself the pain of actually seeing the grave. Save himself the pain? It was too late for that now. All he wanted was to see John.

The detective reached the end of the small path and directly in front of him stood a simply engraved headstone.

_In loving memory of_

_John Hamish Watson_

_The world is a richer place_

_because he once lived._

Sherlock’s brain had been right; as always. He wasn’t ready to see this. Dropping down to his knees on the soft grass before the headstone, Sherlock’s head fell heavily into his hands and he started to cry.

“Please, John,” begged Sherlock, broken sobs causing his body to convulse painfully. “Please, you can’t really be gone. I need you. Please come back, I’ll do better this time. Just give me another chance. Just one more chance”

Sherlock hugged his knees towards his chest, still trying to rid himself of the coldness that seemed to be making a permanent home for itself in his heart. He felt a sharp pain in his left side as something in his coat pocket dug harshly into his hipbone. Reaching around to dip his right hand into the pocket, he remembered. The gun. John’s pistol was still in his pocket.

Long fingers wrapped themselves around the grip of the gun and it was tugged out of the pocket. He remembered checking the gun yesterday and recalled that it had been loaded.

This was it. A way out. A way that he could be with John again. After all, that was all that had ever really mattered since he’d met the blonde haired army doctor at the laboratory at Bart’s. He’d done everything he could to stay with him so far, even faking his own death to save his life. What was one more death to Sherlock if it meant being with John?

Mind made up, Sherlock straightened up where he sat in the grass and rose to his knees once again. Holding the Sig Sauer steadily in his right hand, he positioned the muzzle of the gun to press into his temple, finding comfort in the feel of the cool metal against his skin. With one last look at the headstone in front of him and one last controlled breath, Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his finger gently on the trigger, and pulled.

It seems Sherlock got his second chance after all.

 

**Open up again, I believe in second chances.**

**Author's Note:**

> The song lyrics are from Second Chances by Imagine Dragons.  
> Hope you enjoyed :) x


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